


Imprint

by delires



Category: Digimon - All Media Types, Digimon Adventure, Digimon Adventure Zero Two | Digimon Adventure 02, Digimon Adventure tri.
Genre: Frottage, M/M, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-19
Updated: 2018-05-19
Packaged: 2019-05-09 00:32:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14705748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delires/pseuds/delires
Summary: Some things leave their mark.





	Imprint

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like I need to explain some things here. Taito is my one and only forever OTP, so when I found out that Digimon Tri was a thing, it blew my mind. That said, I have not actually watched Tri. And seeing as I don’t even know what canon really is at this point, this story is probably not canon-compliant. So, apologies in advance for that. 
> 
> Also, for the whole basic premise of this, which is just...I don’t even know. Some twist on fuck or die. Have at it.

It starts with static shocks and tension. Yamato keeps getting these headaches. Sometimes they come on sudden and sharp; other times they take time to build, growing from a dull ache to pain so intense he can hardly see.

“Are you under-caffienated?” Kentaro, the guitarist in his band, asks him at practice one day.

Yamato is sitting on the steps of the stage, hunched over his bass. He shakes his head, wincing when the motion sends a jolt of pain through his skull. “I already drank like three coffees today,” he says.

“Hmm. Over-caffeinated?”

“Maybe.”

This isn’t the first rehearsal to be scuppered by one of his headaches. Kentaro just about still cares, because he’s a caring kind of guy, but the others are completely done with it. Tomo is sitting at his drums on the stage, miming out riffs. Koji has abandoned his keyboard, to smoke outside until Yamato gets over it — or doesn’t, and they can all just leave.

Yamato should feel guilty about it. But mostly he’s just pissed off by how ridiculous it is to have successfully helped to save the world, only to be thwarted by a never-ending headache.

*

The most worrying thing about it is that there seems to be no obvious cause. Yamato has tried quitting smoking, alcohol, caffeine. He’s started drinking as much water as he can, sleeping as much as possible, turning the volume on his headphones down so low that he can barely hear the music. Nothing works. 

Everyone still has an opinion on what he should do.

“Your mother always got migraines,” his dad says, digging his chopsticks into the plate of yaki udon that Yamato has set in front of him. “It makes sense that you’d get them too. You’re more her child than mine in every other way.”

Yamato pokes at his own noodles. The lingering pain in his head makes him nauseous, but he’s already lost enough weight since these headaches started, so he puts a noodle into his mouth and chews it slowly.

“What did she do about them?”

“Drugs,” Hiroaki says, and then pauses at the look on Yamato’s face. “Painkillers, I mean. From the doctor. Not illegal stuff. Don’t get any ideas.”

“Didn’t she find out what was causing them?”

“Stress, apparently. They stopped after we split." Hiroaki chuckles. "So, maybe there’s your answer. Stop living with me and they’ll disappear.”

Yamato rolls his eyes. His phone is vibrating in his pocket. He pulls it out, checks the screen, cancels the call from Taichi. He can call back later.

“You need to eat something. Probably it’s low glucose,” his dad is saying. 

But another bolt of pain is shooting through Yamato’s head and he’s starting to see black spots in front of his eyes. 

It’s not long before he has to get up from the table and stagger to his room, leaving the half-eaten plate of noodles behind.

*

“In Harry Potter it was a curse,” Takeru says, when they drive to visit their grandmother together one day. 

The city is already far behind them and the rice fields and tiled roofs of country houses are sweeping by. Yamato’s at the wheel, but is thinking that he might have to pull over soon if the pain gets any worse. At fourteen, Takeru’s too young to drive, or he’d swap places with him in a second.

“What?”

“When Harry got headaches, it was because of the killing curse he got hit with when he was a baby. It left a mark. He’d get pain whenever You Know Who was nearby.”

“No,” Yamato says. “I don’t know who.”

“Oh. Voldemort. You’re not supposed to say his name. But when he was doing something particularly evil or whatever, Harry’s scar would hurt.”

“I don’t have a scar.”

“I know. I’m just saying. Maybe it’s like a past trauma kind of thing. Because that’s what it was in Harry Potter.”

“I don’t think think Harry Potter was medically accurate,” Yamato says. He reaches out and twists dials on the control panel, turning the radio down and the air con up, to see if either of those things will help.

“Just don’t rule out Avada Kedavra. That’s all I’m saying,” Takeru says. He squirms in his seat, cranes his neck to peer at a roadsign in the distance. “Are we stopping soon? I have to pee.” 

*

The only person who doesn’t have much of an opinion about the headaches is Taichi, who is mostly just concerned for him, and tries his best to be comforting, which feels like the most helpful thing that anyone can do. Perhaps it’s his imagination, but Yamato doesn’t seem to get the headaches so much around him.

Taichi has his own problems, anyway. He’s had three nosebleeds in the past week, and that’s just in the time that they’ve been hanging out together. 

When Yamato points this out, Tachi says, “I know. I’m having some kind of really intense hay fever this year. My sinuses are fucked.”

“I don’t think nosebleeds come from hay fever,” Yamato says.

“Nose cancer?”

“Not everything is cancer, Tai.”

Taichi sniffs, rubs at his nostrils, checks his fingers for blood. “It has to be something. I haven’t had a nosebleed since I was a kid.”

“If anyone has cancer, it’s probably me,” Yamato says. “I think I should go to the doctor. What if it’s a brain tumour?”

“It’s probably not.”

“It might be.”

They’re sitting in a run-down cafe around the corner from Yamato’s apartment. It’s a good place to head when they want to hang out on their own, because other people from school don’t really come here. It’s not exactly a cool place. Mostly full of salary men having meetings over coffee and laptops. There’s some kind of crochet group happening in one corner today, a bunch of middle-aged ladies hooking yarn through little wooden frames.

It’s sort of their place, now. Nobody bothers them here. Yamato wouldn’t change it.

Taichi stirs his straw around his soda, looking thoughtful. “Do you think it’s something digital? Since it’s both of us?”

Yamato shakes his head. He’s already considered that. Of course he has. Isn’t it the first thing to cross any of their minds whenever something unexplained happens?

“It doesn’t feel like it fits. I mean, why just us? Why not everyone else?”

“Because we’re the coolest ones,” Taichi says, with a grin. 

“That wouldn’t explain you at all.” Yamato leans forwards and sips his iced tea, sucking slowly on his straw. Then he sits back again and traces his fingers across his lips as he thinks. “Maybe we both ate something bad? I heard if there’s mercury in tuna that can do weird stuff to you. We went to that bad sashimi place, remember?”

“Shit,” Taichi says, but not because he’s having shashimi flashbacks. He stands up, clutching at his nose, and makes a sudden dash for the bathrooms, nearly crashing into the chair of one of the crochet ladies as he goes. She clutches her teapot on the table to steady it and turns to glare after him.

Yamato stays sitting at their table, sipping his tea and worrying about brain tumours. If it were the headaches alone, that would be one thing, but there’s more to it than that. He feels like his whole body is charged wrong these days, like there is something unfamiliar buzzing in his blood. 

Just now, on the way into the cafe, when he and Taichi reached to open the door at the same time, a shock of static made them both jump back in alarm. And again, when they were in line to order, as they brushed too close for a second, another spark jumped between them, sharp enough for Taichi to actually say “Ouch,” and rub at his arm where Yamato’s metal watch had touched his skin. 

It’s been like this for weeks. Extra static everywhere. Yamato is surprised that he’s not walking around with his hair standing on end. 

And then there are the dreams. Since the headaches started, he keeps waking up in the middle of the night, sweating and hard, panting through a feeling of euphoria that makes it impossible to fall asleep again without jerking off first. He can never remember what the dreams are about — only that they are something very, very good.

The static could legitimately be a digital thing. But those dreams? No way.

*

That Wednesday, the weirdest thing yet happens.

They’re in a gap between lessons. Yamato is standing with Taichi in the school courtyard when Taichi suddenly shoves him hard for no apparent reason, sending him stumbling backwards.

Two seconds later, before Yamato can even get mad about it, a baseball comes flying over the fence and bounces off the concrete exactly where he'd been standing before Taichi pushed him. If he hadn’t moved, it would probably have knocked him out. They aren’t even close to the baseball pitch.

Very slowly, they turn to stare at each other. 

"Dude,” Taichi says in awe. “That's some _Twilight_ shit right there."

"You didn't see that ball coming?" Yamato asks.

Taichi shakes his head no and Yamato pinches the bridge of his nose, feeling the ache start to build in his temples again. The sunlight is too bright, and the school bell is ringing, the sound magnified by the pain in his head. He doesn’t know how much more of this he can take. 

"Today is too much. I'm skipping last period,” he says. “Do you want to skip with me?”

"Okay," Taichi agrees readily. “I know what we can do instead.”

Rather than heading someplace to forget about things, which is what Yamato has in mind, Taichi leads him to the school’s computer lab. It’s not a place Yamato really frequents, but it is where Koushiro will be last period on a Wednesday — something that Taichi knows, because apparently other people’s class schedules are the kind of shit taking up all the valuable space in his brain.

They have a whispered argument outside the classroom about whether interrupting Koushiro’s lesson is really necessary. It ends with Taichi saying “I don’t care, I’m doing it anyway,” before knocking smartly on the door. The teacher gestures him inside.

“Good afternoon, sir,” Taichi says. “We need Koushiro Izumi to come with us to Mr. Tanaka’s office. It’s about the preparations for the cultural festival next week.” 

Taichi lies with such confidence and such a dazzling smile that the teacher doesn’t doubt him for a second, and it’s not long before the three of them are tucked away in an empty classroom down the hall.

Koushiro lays his bag on top of one of the desks and says, “I assume that we’re not here to discuss the cultural festival.” 

Taichi starts recounting the whole story, beginning with a dramatic re-enactment of the baseball incident. He makes himself out to be some kind of hero figure when really it was probably dumb luck. Sportsman’s reflexes at best.

Yamato doesn’t have the energy to put the record straight. He leans back against the teacher’s desk and presses his fingers against his head, trying to feel out the pain. It’s unseasonably hot for May and the classroom smells dusty and metallic, the scent of too many desktop computers running at once. The blinds on all the windows are pulled up and the sunlight is pouring in. The place feels like a sauna. 

Koushiro is nodding seriously while Taichi’s hands are flying all over the place as he talks through his story. Yamato is kind of casually keeping an eye out through the window in the door for passing teachers, but his ears prick up when he hears Koushiro mention the word ‘Jogress’.

“I’m just thinking about variables that would connect you two, but also set you apart from the rest of us,” Koushiro says, but he’s frowning, like he’s not quite satisfied with this hypothesis.

“You do think it’s digital, then?” Yamato can’t decide whether this would be a relief or worse than a brain tumour.

Koushiro looks at him and shrugs, which isn’t exactly confidence-inspiring. “Perhaps.”

“We’re not the only ones who have experienced Jogress, though.” Taichi is standing up straight, power-posing, in his element dealing with shit like this. Yamato just wants to get the hell out of here and climb into bed.

“But you were the first,” Koushiro says.

“So?” asks Yamato.

“And I was there then. It was intense.”

“It was pretty fucking intense,” Taichi agrees.

“I’m not belittling the others’ experiences,” Koushiro continues. “I just think there could potentially be something different about yours. Because of how it started. It was really torn out of you. Maybe that leaves a mark.”

Taichi nods. “Like a hangover.”

“Yes. If you want to think of it like that. And you’ve done it so many times, now. Each time could be making the mark a little more pronounced until it’s deep enough that physiological symptoms appear.”

There’s laughter outside the classroom windows, a girls’ PE class making their way over to the tennis courts. Yamato winces at the noise. He shifts further down the desk to avoid the sunlight pouring in through the glass, which seems to be getting brighter by the second. He doesn’t want to admit that Koushiro’s theory makes sense, because even if he’s right, how the hell are they supposed to undo something like that? 

Taichi is already looking at him expectantly, though. “What do you think?” 

“I think this sounds way too much like Takeru’s fucking Harry Potter idea,” Yamato says. “If he was right all along, I’m going to kill myself.”

“Killing yourself is never the answer,” Koushiro says, because he never registers Yamato’s sarcasm until a beat too late.

“Say it is a Jogress thing,” says Taichi. “How do we get rid of it? And why is it only happening now?”

Koushiro shakes his head. “That I can’t tell you.”

“Well, what good are you to us if you don’t have answers to this stuff?” Yamato snaps. It’s not fair to Koushiro, but he can’t help himself. He feels like something is stabbing him in the skull.

“Hey,” Taichi says. “Why are you getting mad?”

“Because it’s weird. It gives me the creeps,” Yamato says, though honestly there is something else, some answer niggling away at the back of his mind. Only every time he tries to focus on it, it slips away before he can make sense of it. 

If Koushiro is hurt by Yamato lashing out, he certainly doesn’t show it. He drums his fingers on the desk behind him, another noise Yamato could do without. “Just think for a minute. When did it start? Can you remember?”

“I don’t know,” Yamato says.

“I can,” says Taichi. “I had a nosebleed on the train home after my birthday.” 

This is the first that Yamato has heard about that. “You did?”

“Yeah. After you got off. Did you get a headache then?”

“I had one the next day. But I was hungover.”

“Was that the first bad one?” Koushiro asks.

“I guess so.”

“So, maybe it was something that happened that night.”

“Nothing happened that night,” Yamato says, which is not exactly true. Taichi knows that all too well. He snorts and raises his eyebrows and then Yamato can feel his cheeks heating up. “I mean, nothing that would have caused this. Come on.” 

Taichi doesn’t elaborate, but he doesn’t need to. Koushiro can already see there’s something they’re not telling him. He looks back and forth between them, but then ultimately decides it’s better not to ask.

“I should get back to class,” he says, turning to pick up his bag. 

On the way out of the room, he pauses, with one hand on the door. “Codeine,” he tells Yamato. “That’s best for headaches. It’s an opiate, which means it’s in the same family as opium. Really does the trick.”

*

What Koushiro doesn’t know is this:

On the weekend before Taichi’s birthday some guys from his soccer team throw him a surprise party. For once, none of the other chosen children are there. Yamato is the only one who is really on their radar, and they need someone outside of the team to collude with them in getting Taichi to the bar in Shinjuku. So, he gets an invite and he’s the one who has to suffer Taichi’s incessant questions about where they are going and what they are doing all the way there.

The bar is the type of place that turns a blind eye to age restrictions. It sits way too close to Kabukicho to be what you would call a classy establishment. Behind the noren, it is dark and loud and smells strongly of the yakitori chicken skewers being grilled out back. The whole party is kind of over-the-top macho, with chanting and belching and fist-bumping. It’s really the opposite of Yamato’s scene. But there are trays of shots and bottles of sake and the music is kind of cool in a retro way. Plus, Taichi seems to be having the time of his fucking life and so it’s not long before Yamato starts enjoying himself too.

Then, in the lull between songs, Masaharu, the team’s deputy captain, suggests a game of forfeits. Yamato has just returned from the bar and the drinks in his hands suddenly don’t seem anywhere near strong enough.

The first victim has to streak naked through the room. The second has to leave the building completely, and not return until he finds a date for the rest of the night. So, it’s funny, at first. 

But then it is the birthday boy’s turn. 

“Okay, Yagami,” says Masaharu, with a wicked smirk. “Your challenge is to kiss another dude.” He pauses there for effect, and then adds: “For real. With tongues and shit.”

The laughter and hollering are predictable, but almost more predictable is the way that Taichi immediately looks to Yamato for help, because when is he not expected to bail Taichi out of whatever horrible situation he has gotten into?

“No,” Yamato says, before Taichi can even ask, not caring that it leaves him spluttering indignantly over Masaharu’s laughter. 

“What makes you think I was going to ask you?” Taichi says.

“Because you were. And I said no.”

“Well, I wasn’t going to ask, actually.” Taichi stands up and scans the crowds in the bar. He bites at his bottom lip. He’s nervous about this one, Yamato realises.

“Come on, Yagami. What’s the problem? Real men don’t care about this shit,” one of the other team members jeers.

Maybe it’s the sake in his glass, or Taichi’s anxious expression that does it, but Yamato finds himself stepping forwards, not quite realising what he’s doing until everybody is already staring at him. By that point, it’s too late to back out, but he doesn’t miss the look of relief that crosses Taichi’s face. And so he wouldn’t back out anyway.

Yamato sets his drink down and then points a finger at Masaharu. “If I do this, then it counts as my forfeit too.”

“Deal,” Masaharu says quickly. He’s grinning, pleased with himself for the minor drama he’s created. 

It feels like the whole room is holding its breath as Taichi and Yamato step close, though in reality only a handful of people are paying any attention and most of those are too drunk to remember very much of it tomorrow. 

“Thanks,” Taichi says, too quiet for anyone else to hear.

Yamato says, “Just get on with it.”

He closes his eyes as Taichi leans in and then there are strong hands cupping his face and soft lips touching his own. It’s actually not the first time that Yamato has kissed another boy, but it is the first time since Sora that he has kissed someone he honestly cares about, and he’s forgotten how much that matters.

Taichi smells like home. It’s too easy for Yamato to part his lips and for their tongues to slide together, smooth and instinctual, like this is something they have done before.

When they break apart, Yamato’s hands are bunched in Taichi’s shirt and one of Taichi’s arms has slid down to Yamato’s waist. They quickly disentangle and both reach for their drinks, trying to ignore the stunned beat of silence before the team bursts into their usual clamour of jeers and shouting.

Masaharu sidles up to Taichi. “I think you should do another. It looked like you enjoyed that way too much for it to count as a forfeit.”

Taichi swallows his mouthful of beer and shoves Masaharu away. “It’s called acting, dickhead. Maybe it’s your turn for a forfeit.”

Nobody bothers to tease Yamato about it, because he’s not really one of them. So, he just steps back and sips his drink, and for the rest of the night, he finds himself looking away whenever Taichi tries to catch his eye.

Later, they stumble to the train station together and pause outside the illuminated ticket complex while Taichi digs his railcard out of his pocket. He’s drunker than Yamato is, because the team have been plying him with shots all night. He finds the card but makes no move to walk towards the ticket gates. 

“Hey,” he says, thoughtfully.

Yamato scowls, pulls his jacket a little tighter around his body against the midnight chill. “What?”

They stare at one another for a moment, sussing things out. Shinjuku is always busy, whatever the hour, and they are the calm eye at the centre of the commotion.

For once, Yamato honestly can’t tell what his friend is thinking.

“Nothing,” Taichi says, eventually, turning to lead the way through the gates.

They get on the train and sit beside each other until Yamato’s stop.

Time to get off.

*

Here is what Yamato doesn’t know:

He’s not the only one having dreams. Taichi can’t count the number of nights in the past month that he has woken up in sticky sheets. He is a boy without a girlfriend who just turned eighteen, so this doesn’t exactly make him a freak of nature, but they’ve never been this frequent before. And there are only so many times he can wash his own sheets in a week before his mom starts asking awkward questions.

The dreams start happening around the same time as the nosebleeds do. At first, Taichi can’t determine a common cause for his problems either. But, as the weeks pass, a pattern slowly begins to emerge. 

There’s the day at the movies when Yamato flips out at the most obvious jump-scare in the world and grabs Taichi’s arm in a panic. It’s adorable in the way that Yamato is always adorable when he loses his cool, which is precisely why Taichi loves seeing scary movies with him in the first place.

This is what he’s thinking as he’s reaching over to pat his friend on the shoulder and say, ‘hey dude, it’s okay, just make-believe, way less scary than all that real-ass shit we’ve survived together,’ when he feels a tickle against his lips. He flicks out his tongue and tastes copper, because blood is suddenly pouring from his nose.

There’s a scrabble to staunch the flow with napkins. The people in front turn to see what all the fuss is about. Taichi misses half of the movie because he’s sitting with his head tipped back, and then walks out of the theatre looking like he’s been on a killing spree. People give him a wide berth the whole way home.

Then, there is the day that he is sitting in the school hall, waiting for Yamato to wrap up a rehearsal with his band. They’re taking part in a city-wide concert in celebration of International Women’s Day, so are trying to learn a bunch of covers of songs by female artists. 

Taichi has heard the opening chords of ‘Jolene’ by Dolly Parton at least ten times in a row now.

“I don’t know about this one,” Yamato says, frowning at the sheet music in his hand. He’s leaning on an empty mic stand and has his bass slung around his body, shoulders thrown back to support the instrument’s weight.

Taichi is lolling in a chair at the back of the room, playing games on his phone and half-listening to the rehearsal. He cracks his gum louder than he means to, but nobody even looks over. They’re all too caught up in the music.

“We can do something with really nice harmonies. It doesn't have to be cheesy,” Tomo says twirling one drumstick between his fingers.

“You take top,” Kentaro tells Yamato, who shakes his head.

“It's too high for me. I can do the neo-jazz female shit, not country. It’s not my style.” 

Koji kicks at Yamato’s microphone stand. “Stop bitching.”

“Sing it down, then,” says Kentaro. “Give it your stamp. We can get Hoshi in to take the high notes if we feel it needs it.”

“I want to sing Lana Del Rey,” Yamato says, in a tone of voice that makes Taichi glance up from his phone. It's a tone that threatens imminent violence.

Koji walks over and jabs his fingers into Yamato’s stomach. A dangerous move, given the circumstances. “You can hit it. Use your fucking diaphram, asshole. Stop pretending not to be good at this. It’s boring.”

And to Taichi’s surprise, rather than swinging the microphone stand around and using it to bludgeon Koji in the head, Yamato does what he’s told. He opens his mouth and sings, unaccompanied, the opening lines of the song. Stops. Scowls. 

“Sharp,” Tomo says.

“Fuck off. I know.” Yamato adjusts his guitar strap, squares his shoulders and sings it again, hitting the notes right this time.

It’s strange to hear him sing without an entourage, no amps or drums. When he’s not putting on some kind of weird rockstar husk, his voice is clear and warm, a pleasure to listen to. And Taichi tells him exactly that, later, as they’re walking out of the school together.

“I'm no Dolly Parton, though,” Yamato says, raking a hand through his hair, clearly embarrassed by the compliment. 

“It's different. It's nice. You bring, like, a quality to it, you know?”

“I’d rather sing Lana Del Rey but they’re ignoring me.”

“They’re right to,” Taichi says, purely to get a reaction. “She's so depressing and boring.”

Predictably, Yamato is outraged. “Okay, that's just ridiculous. You have literally no taste in music. We can't be friends anymore. This is the end. Right here.”

When Taichi laughs at that, Yamato grabs him by the arm and drags him to a nearby bench, where he forces him to sit down.

“You are going to sit here and I am going to play you ‘Off To The Races’ on loop until you fucking get it,” Yamato says, hooking his earbuds out of his top pocket, and offering them to Taichi. “That song is sex and poetry, man. It's beautiful.”

 _No. You're beautiful. You're sex and poetry._ The words are on the tip of Taichi’s tongue to say as a joke, or maybe not even a joke, as kind of just the truth, but he suddenly can’t breathe, can’t say anything at all because there is blood running down his face, dripping off his chin. Getting everywhere.

The headphones are still dangling in front of Taichi’s face as Yamato scrolls through the playlists on his phone. But the music is quickly forgotten once Yamato notices the blood.

“Again?” he says. His voice is annoyed, but his hands are gentle as he helps Taichi tilt his head back to stop the bleeding.

That really should be the one that makes it all clear, but it is not until three days later that Taichi finally works it out.

They’ve been hanging out with Sora and Koushiro down by the bay, enjoying the first real summer sunshine of the year. Stripped to their school shirts, sleeves rolled, ties loosened. 

Taichi is nearly home again by the time he realises that he is wearing Yamato’s school sweater. He must have grabbed it and pulled it on by mistake as they got up to leave, which explains why it feels kind of tight in the shoulders and arms. And why everything around him suddenly smells like Yamato.

There’s no reason for him to keep wearing it, but the air con is on in the apartment, so it’s freezing when he steps inside. And as soon as he’s through the door his mother drags him into setting the table, and then they are all sitting down to eat and he has forgotten about it completely.

That is, until his phone pings with a message, which he opens up under the cover of the dinner table.

_Do you have my sweater? I think I have yours_

Taichi replies to Yamato’s message left-handed, out of sight, making it look like he’s still paying attention to whatever his dad is saying about the Yomiuri Giants.

_Yeah I’ll keep it warm for you_

_Do not bleed on it_ , Yamato replies, which Taichi can’t help smiling at.

“Are you texting a girl?”

He looks up to see Hikari watching him with narrowed eyes. “No,” he says, shoving the phone back into his pocket. 

“Taichi. No phones at the table,” his mother says immediately.

“Ew,” Hikari says, then. “Your nose is bleeding.”

Taichi rushes to the bathroom and holds handfuls of tissues against his face as he stares at himself in the mirror. His phone pings again. He is still wearing Yamato’s sweater. 

Then it hits him. There is absolutely a common factor; the common factor is Yamato. 

And that’s when Taichi starts putting two and two together and getting five. 

*

After Koushiro heads back to class, they leave the computer labs and walk aimlessly until they wind up at Taichi’s apartment. It’s hot outside. Yamato is glad to slip off his shoes and feel the cool tatami beneath his feet.

Taichi tosses his school blazer over a chair and turns to face him, looking way too proactive.

“Right,” he says. “What are we going to do about this?”

Yamato shrugs. “Don’t suppose you have a stash of opium-based painkillers around here somewhere?” 

“Do you think Koushiro is right?”

“I think… I think I should go home and lie down.”

“What if it was that? That caused this?” Taichi says.

Yamato stares at him in confusion. He doesn’t know what Taichi’s talking about, because he can’t possibly mean that stupid kiss at his birthday party. But then Taichi widens his eyes meaningfully and Yamato realises that, oh yes, he does.

“That is the most ridiculous fucking thing I have ever heard,” he says, because he doesn’t like the look on Taichi’s face, how earnest it is. How true it all feels.

“Well, it was something,” Taichi says.

“No,” Yamato says, sharp and angry, taking a step back when Taichi steps forwards. 

Taichi holds his hands up placatingly. “I’m not being crazy. And I’m not being a dick. I just think we need to at least talk about what it might have meant.”

“Okay. Then you can talk about that with yourself.” Yamato turns away from him. Heads for the door.

“Wait,” Taichi says. He lunges after Yamato and catches him by the arm. “I said wait a minute.” 

When Yamato shakes him off, he grabs him again, by both shoulders this time, pulls him back and shoves him against the wall, because fighting is really the only way they know how to solve anything.

“Get off of me,” Yamato says, raising his fist.

But then Taichi does the unthinkable and kisses him on the lips.

Yamato freezes for a second. His eyes slide closed. There’s a thrum of something undeniably good. But then he snaps to his senses and shoves Taichi away from him.

Taichi stumbles backwards and holds up both hands in defence. Yamato realises that his own hands are still clenched in fists.

“What the hell are you doing?” 

“I think it will help,” Taichi says.

“What?”

“I don’t know. I just have this really strong feeling that it will help. I feel like I need to be closer to you. I feel like I might be…”

Before Taichi can finish that sentence, a shock of pain lances through Yamato’s head. It’s worse than it’s ever been. Strong and sudden enough to send him down to the ground in a crouch, one hand clutched over his temple and right eye.

Taichi crouches down with him, until the worst has passed. Then he says “mother of fuck” and stands up again. 

When Yamato peers through the fingers covering his eye, he sees Taichi tilting his head back and holding his nose, as blood runs between his fingertips. He’s groping blindly for the box of tissues on the side table. Yamato pushes himself away from the wall, wincing as the movement brings on another stab of pain and passes handfuls of tissues to Taichi.

“Thanks,” Taichi says, his voice nasal, as he shoves the tissues against his bleeding nose.

*

Once the bleeding has stopped and Taichi has splashed water on his face to clear away the blood, he joins Yamato sitting on the living room floor.

It’s late afternoon now. It won’t be long before Hikari turns up, before Taichi’s parents get home from work. There’s music outside the window from a passing car. A motorbike revs away down the street. Yamato stares at the patterns the sunlight makes, coming through the gaps in the blinds. He knows that Taichi is watching him, but he’s not about to look over there.

“It feels like this might be happening because we’re both trying to shove something away,” Taichi says.

“Like what?”

“Something really important.”

Yamato finally turns to look at him, and then can’t look away again once he has. “That’s bullshit. It has to be. It would be too insane.”

Taichi licks his lips. “Just let me try this,” he says. “You can tell me to stop at any time.”

Obviously, Yamato thinks, though he says nothing. He sits there blinking. And then, very slowly, he nods.

Taichi shuffles closer. He reaches out and rests one hand on Yamato’s thigh, where his touch seems to prickle, like an itch it would feel great to scratch. He leans in and then they are kissing again.

This time Yamato is involved, not just frozen still. He parts his lips and tilts his head, on the automatic, but quickly realises what he was too drunk or shocked to realise the first two times: Taichi is an awesome kisser. When he slips in some tongue, it’s enough to make Yamato completely forget the lingering ache in his head.

“Hey, you’re good at this,” Yamato says when they part for breath.

“Thanks. I’ve been told that before,” Taichi says, with a flash of a grin.

“It’s about time you were good at something.” Yamato closes his hand around Taichi’s collar and uses the grip to tug him closer.

Taichi opens his mouth to reply, but Yamato kisses him again before he can get the words out. And, not to be outdone, he really gives it some. He is good at this too, has most certainly had more practice at it and with more different people than Taichi has. There is a point to be made.

But once Yamato opens himself up to it completely, something weird happens. His body feels fully charged, like an electrical current is passing between them. The points of Taichi’s fingertips feel hot, where they are touching his neck. There is a thrumming sound building in his ears. He’s turned on, sure, but there’s something bigger overlaying that. The closest thing Yamato can compare it to is indeed the feeling of Jogress. It’s a sense of being completely energised. Connected. Invincible.

“Woah,” Taichi says, breaking their kiss, but keeping his hands on Yamato, running them lightly up and down his arms, so as not to break their connection completely.

“I know,” Yamato says. His own voice sounds strange, over the ringing in his ears. And then, with certainty: “I think you’re right. We need to try this.” 

Taichi nods. “Come on.” He takes Yamato by the hand and leads the way to his bedroom, closing the door behind them. 

When he steps close and brings their faces together, nuzzling cheek against cheek, it makes the breath catch in Yamato’s throat. Their fingers are already interlaced, tingling with that electricity, but now Yamato tightens his grip and uses it to pull Taichi towards the unmade bed.

They fall down into it, the familiar smell of familiar sheets and then suddenly can’t get their clothes off fast enough, can’t stop kissing long enough to fix that. Something raw is happening. Claws and teeth and fur and bone fusing together. Memory of synapses firing as one. 

Yamato tugs at the hem of Taichi’s half-buttoned shirt, urging it up and over his head, so that he can run his palms over Taichi’s chest, something he hadn’t realised he’s been wanting to do, just like he hadn’t realised how much he’s wanted to sink his teeth into Taichi’s bottom lip, hook his knee over Taichi’s thigh and lift his own hips just so, bringing them into alignment and making sparks explode.

The sleeves of Yamato’s shirt are bunched around his elbows, so he can’t really move his arms. But nothing matters. Nothing at all. Taichi rolls his hips down, runs his tongue over Yamato’s collarbone and Yamato feels his whole body shiver with sensation.

“It feels like this isn't the first time,” Taichi says, breathing hard. “Is that weird? Like I know just what to do to you.”

“Yeah, that's totally fucked up. But I feel the same.” 

Yamato finally wrestles his arms free of his shirt. He leans back in the pillows and pulls Taichi down along with him, so they can keep kissing while he’s working open the zip of Taichi’s fly and sliding his hand inside.

Taichi gasps and clutches at him. He’s already half-hard inside his underwear and it only takes a few gentle strokes of Yamato’s fingers to get him all the way there.

“We’re doing this, then,” Taichi says, voice strained from holding himself up on one arm, which is supporting all his weight. Yamato turns his head and kisses Taichi’s bicep, where it is braced beside his face.

“You wanted to. You said.”

“I do.”

“That’s good. Because I really don’t want to stop.” Yamato squeezes his fingers gently around Taichi’s cock, feeling it twitch in his hand.

Taichi suddenly sits up. He seizes Yamato’s hips, tugging him forwards, scrambling to undo the flies on Yamato’s pants, while simultaneously trying to wriggle out of his own. He pulls Yamato up and half into his lap so they can bring their mouths back together again. 

It’s graceless and messy and they can’t even get all of their clothes off properly before they are rocking together, have hit some kind of perfect rhythm that they are powerless to interrupt. 

Taichi’s fingers are digging into Yamato’s shoulders and his teeth are sharp against Yamato’s neck. It is hot and intense as their dicks rub together, and they’re so fucking close that it only takes another couple of strokes of their hips before Taichi is groaning and coming wet against him. And then Yamato is following, gripping his knees hard around Taichi’s waist and gasping for breath, until they’re falling together, and everything is dark and warm and peaceful.

*

Yamato wakes to the sound of a distant television set and the click of a door closing.

It’s evening. The light coming through the curtains is dusk-blue, but he’s already in bed. Taichi’s bed, he realises, and Taichi is there, walking over from the door and sliding under the sheets beside him.

For the first time in weeks, Yamato’s head doesn’t hurt at all.

“Everyone’s home. But don’t worry. They’re distracted,” Taichi says. 

They lie there in silence, listening to the ticking of the clock and the hum of the cicadas, just starting up in the big tree at the side of the building. Taichi shifts, so that they are aligned more closely, his knees tucked into the curve of Yamato’s. 

“That was,” he says, and then trails off. “I mean. I’m pretty sure that’s ruined me for sex with anyone else ever.”

Yamato’s eyes are still heavy. He can feel them beginning to slip closed. A feeling of calm has settled over his body. 

“We'll just have to have stick to sex with each other, then,” he murmurs, as his mind starts to drift.

Taichi hesitates for a moment and then puts one arm cautiously around Yamato’s waist. It feels nice.

Yamato concentrates on breathing. There’s no way things can be this simple. 

And yet they are.


End file.
